


I won't cry for yesterday (the ordinary world)

by Nightbirdsong



Category: no fandom applies to this one because just a study
Genre: LJ fucks up my format, Multi, and where else would I post this, because whoops, just a study, not for the masses, so hell to the nah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightbirdsong/pseuds/Nightbirdsong





	I won't cry for yesterday (the ordinary world)

#1 Icarus

 

 

There is no revolution in this story. No big war to fight, perhaps not even a villain.  
In conclusion, there is no bigger meaning and no hero you can worship. And in the end, even this story is meaningless. An endless string of events, just like life. Because, in hindsight, nothing that ever happens, matters in the ever-turning wheels of the world.  
So what is the purpose of even telling this story? Well, to find the answer, is your task.  
For life in itself holds no meaning, there is no bigger dream, no great reveal at the end of the book, when the last page is turned. The journey there, to that last words, that read “the end” is what should give a meaning. And still, there will be no revolution in this story.  
Nothing can give this world a greater goal.

 

Describing the world is hard. It's as hard as finding the right words to start a book, a conversation, a presentation in front of a waiting auditorium full of people. Sometimes it's easy, the words coming readily and painting a picture with nothing but letters, descriptions of things starting to blur into a picture that enraptures the listener.

So what is the world?

Sometimes it's like a little music box, silent until someone turns it's gears and switches it on, watching a tiny dancer spin and spin and spin around itself until the energy runs out again.  
And on other days, it's like a well oiled machine, a factory full of cogs and hands that grip into each other seamlessly. It's too smooth. The way the city wakes up around him after a hazy morning, the sun nothing but a hint on the horizon, a fine sliver of silver and blue, cold even though the day is going to be smoldering hot. She will turn the city into a furnace, reflected off of countless glass walls and the concrete streets below, he knows.  
But right now, daylight is just a vague promise, still far away while he stares up into the tree branches that sway gently above him in an invisible breeze. The green still looks almost black, the dawn of a new day slowly bringing the colors to life while he watches. He watches the black backdrop of a night sky steadily fading into gray, into the same color of the smoke that curls from the tip of a cigarette. The tree is swaying with a silent murmur, natures voice almost like the whisper of a lover in the early morning when words are still hard to form on a heavy tongue, when touches are still soft and careful. When the bed is still warm.  
Here, outside, the air feels cool and almost damp against his skin, the fabric of his thin jacket starting to cling to his skin with the moisture it collected over night while he was sitting in this same spot, watching the world.  
One might think that underneath a tree, there would be calmness. That there would be peace and nature and solitude, but all he felt this night was loneliness. This could be a nice spot, he thinks, listens to the water of the fountain behind him rush over stones when the clock hits six.  
  
Could be.

A word that is almost long-forgotten in this world.  
But it is true. This bench, this fountain and this tree could be a nice, peaceful spot. They probably were, before the concrete, steel and glass swallowed everything up in their way.  
And right behind the tree there is the fence, wire bent and rusty, the landscape behind it nothing but more rust, more debris and rubble. Out there, at the seam of the city, it's like staring into the face of the past. The old world – a world without the collars, without colors, without security. Barbaric. Man against man, the survival of the fittest.  
He doesn't believe it.  
A world like that couldn't have been so bad. It couldn't have been worse than what this city is now. What, with it's color-coded systems, humans robbed from the only thing they ever really want.  
The chance to be greater than what they are born as.  
Not anymore.  
His mouth twists into a thin line, his teeth grind.  
The white of his collar suddenly feels like a weight, like the collar of a dog, not just a strip of silk that is fixed into the gap between his lapels. Just because he was born with the right to wear the white, he should feel like he is above everything else. But he doesn't.  
There is movement behind him and he moves too.  
His boots scratch on the ground, sand and dust grinding into the cracked pavement as he walks, away from his make-shift throne. The tree and bench are a lonely picture behind him, like the last remainder of something out of fairy tales. And yet, he doesn't look back, only looks straight ahead as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket, dipping his head down to watch the once black tips of his boots slowly turn gray with the dust of a city that never truly stands still. He can already feel the thrumming of the trains under his feet, wheels rattling over the trails. It's like a wake-up call, making his heart beat just a little bit faster. His steps never slow down even when he joins the throng of people streaming towards the nearby train station. Nobody spares him a glance, just like he is the tree forgotten in the small courtyard behind an empty building. All their gazes are fixed on the little glass disks in their hands, screens illuminating faces in the dim light of the day that is just waking up, like most of them are.  
But he keeps his head high, eyes traveling over the heads of people around him, the gray mass that rolls through the streets like a river would fall over a cliff. He takes a deep breath, swallows the stale taste of sand on his tongue and takes a few steps to the side, away from the stream and into the open. Still, nobody even glances his way.

“Are you sure?”, he still hears his brothers voice, like its playing on repeat inside his head and even while his heart races, he knows that the answer would always be yes. There is no other way out, no other way to escape the endless white, the black and gray and monochrome steel, no staircase to heaven. If he doesn't do this, he will forever be stuck. Forever stuck with a white collar around his neck that feels too tight on his throat, strangling him like invisible hands.  
It happens without warning. There, on the other side of the road, he sees him. Their eyes lock, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile. It's like the world stops spinning on its axis, like someone pulled the emergency break in the underground train, something coming to a screeching halt.  
Reality is off its hinges. Fate.  
He knows. Just now he locked eyes with the first person he would ever kill.

 

The air is crisp and smells faintly of rain, cicadas so loud Jin can barely hear his own thoughts.  
He runs a hand through his hair, feeling the silky, blackish-blue strands stick to his scalp where they are slightly wet with sweat. It's unpleasant, being out here. The taste on his tongue is unpleasant too, but he can do nothing but smile through it, swallow around the mouth full of slightly lukewarm wine that makes the glass in his hand perspire against his palm, the warmth of his skin heating the red liquid even more. Geming across from him smiles – the motherfucker – and Jin makes himself smile too, well aware of the fact that the curl of his lips is probably more of a grimace than anything else.  
“So.”, Geming starts, leaning back into his wicker chair, legs crossing and the tip of his loafer bobbing up and down lazily like the tail of a cat that curls in and out, a pendulum that is the only hint of a warning you would get before a claw strikes into your skin.  
“So?”, Jin repeats and nearly winces when he hears the questioning tone of his own voice, cracking from the sweltering heat. The parasol they are sitting under is not enough shelter from the glaring sun, the glass walls flanking the terrace left and right throwing back the rays like mirrors- like a magnifying glass would burn ants, if angled right. Jin feels a bead of sweat run down his spine, right between his shoulder blades, where the scars of his last inking session are still fresh and tender. He moves against his own wicker chair, subtly trying to press the slightly damp fabric of his shirt deeper into his skin.  
Geming smirks when he notices the motion, the bobbing of his foot stopping for the fraction of a second, before it picks up again, slightly more pronounced this time.   
“How is your father?”  
Jin nearly snorts. The other man across from him is hardly asking for his fathers well-being – and even if he would ask, there would be a hidden agenda behind the question. There always is when it comes to Yang Geming. And it never comes as a surprise for him. Not anymore.  
He stays silent, only raises a single eyebrow as the corner of his mouth simultaneously lifts into a crooked grin, his head tilting to the side while he fixes the other man with a look of utter disbelief. Geming only chuckles, as if he cracked the most hilarious joke of the century and Jin really, really wants to roll his eyes. Maybe he can, hidden behind his shades. But he doesn't. Just looks at Geming for a few minutes longer while the other man snickers and snorts to himself, shaking his head while he sips the disgusting wine he is cradling in his palm like a newborn baby.  
“What you meant to ask.”, Jin finally drawls and sinks down further into his chair, long legs stretching out underneath the table, ankles crossing. “Is if my father finally picked up on my business.”  
  
“ _Your_ business.”, Geming echoes and Jin bites his tongue. The way the other man stresses the words makes it more than clear, he would beg to differ, but Jin makes no attempt to correct himself. He simply nods once, taking another sip of his wine, feels the warmth of the alcohol pool in his stomach before he sets the crystal goblet down on the table between them, almost as if its creating a barrier between them.  
“It's none of his business, so it's my business.”, he shrugs, lifting one shoulder. Geming visibly relaxes at that, his brows smoothing out. The older man asserts him with a long, thorough gaze and Jin knows that behind his sunglasses, the others eyes are narrowed into little slits. Its a game they play, every other week. Who will break first, who will take a wrong step and make a wrong move. It's something that has become second nature to him by now, all too familiar. He takes his time now, while Geming is busy staring him down, letting his own eyes travel down the length of the other mans body.  
It's been several years since Jin met the man sitting in front of him, all prim and proper in a white linen suit, navy blue dress shirt buttoned up all the way to the dark blue silk strip fixed around his throat and keeping the shirts collar in place like a tie never could.  
Geming is tanned, surely from the weeks he spent by the sea, taking care of the business he has in Hong Kong, coming back laden with even more money and overly-expensive gifts to shower his trophy wife with. Things didn't change that much, even after the war. Jin smiles to himself at the thought, but bites down on his tongue to keep himself in check. Geming still studies him wordlessly, glass in hand and loafer still bobbing – lazily now.  
“You see.”, the other starts almost casually and Jin steels himself for the impending blow. “Your father might be blind to your actions, but I am not. I'm still waiting for your reports.”  
“I don't owe you any reports.”, Jin shoots back without missing a beat, crossing his arms over his chest while getting more comfortable in the utterly uncomfortable wicker chair. “You do your part, I do mine. If you want this to work, you have to trust in my abilities.”  
Geming snorts this time, loudly so.  
“I am glad you didn't say I should trust _you_.”, the older man says and reaches up to smooth the heel of his palm against the short-shaved side of his head, almost as if he is checking the immaculate style of his hair that shines like fresh oil in the light of the sun that filters through the parasol. “Because you and I both know all too well that you can not be trusted.”  
The smile that steals across his lips at that might as well be a smirk and Jin is aware of that.  
Neither are you, he wants to reply, but they both know that he doesn't have to say it out loud for it to hang between them like a revolver in a game of Russian Roulette.  
“So.”, he simply answers, inclining his head just a fraction, like one would while toasting a friend across a dinner table. The glass of warm wine remains on the table between them, almost like a border drawn  
with crimson. “There is nothing to talk here, is there? I assume, you simply summoned me here for your own entertainment.”  
“As it is, dear Jin.”, Geming gives him a smile, so simpering and false, it drips with honey. “I _summoned_ you up here, to remind you of a simple fact, you often seem to forget.”  
“And that would be?”, Jin asks, carefully choosing his words, his hands pressed flat against the armrests of his wicker chair. Geming levels him with a cool glance, his straight eyebrows arching up ever so slightly before they smooth out again and Jin sees the flickering of his eyes behind his black glasses, the way his long lashes flutter across his sharp cheekbones. There is a little bit of a shine to the high bridge of Gemings nose, the heat not leaving him unaffected, no matter how composed the older man might look in his chair, knees crossed and hands resting in his lap.  
He won't like the answer he will get.

It's obvious in the way Geming looks at him, a smug smile hidden just in the corner of his mouth, where his lips turn up like he is constantly smirking like the cat who got the cream.  
“I called you here, to remind you that you belong to me.”, the other man says then, slowly. His voice cuts through the humid afternoon air like a knife cuts through bread – grating and slow, deliberate to leave a clean, straight cut. “That, no matter how much power you might gain, no matter how many of those young, blind people follow you into the abyss, I am the one pulling the strings. Your puppet master, if you will.” He pauses. Jin grips the armrests a little tighter, watching Geming take a sip from his perfectly cool glass, a drop of sinful red clinging to his bottom lip.  
He is a picture of immaculate perfection. Chiseled and formed to look just like this.

Superior.

He remembers meeting Geming for the first time, when he himself was nothing more than a sixteen year old boy, just reaching manhood, by his fathers side for the first time in years. Geming looked to him like the flawless example of a man, who had it all. Oh, how he admired him, how he was drawn to him – a moth to a flame that would burn him alive and he was aware of that. Still is.  
It was childish infatuation that drove him into Gemings claws and a little part of him sometimes still thinks, that the only thing holding him in those clutches, is still this weird sense of belonging. A crush that faded away, but he can't let go of it. Like a son, who longs for his fathers approval, although he will never get it.  
“That's it?”, he brushes Gemings words aside and the older man arches an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in annoyance. “If that's all, I will consider myself reminded and see myself out.”  
In one fluid motion he gets up from his chair, smoothing his hands down the fronts of his black jacket and reaches out for the glass of wine on the table, setting it to his mouth and emptying it in one smooth tilt, eyes boring into Gemings, who just looks back at him through his black glasses.  
The glass clinks against the table when he sets it down none-too gently, a little trickle of red flowing down the side of it and pooling at the bottom, leaving a red ring against the surface of the table. Geming doesn't even look at it. He just smiles like Jin just told him the worst joke and he only laughs to humor the younger man.  
He scoffs, turns his head away and straightens, turning his back towards the other man, who doesn't even bother to get up, following his own words to show himself out of the high-rise apartment Geming owns above the streets of the city.   
“You know.”, he hears the older state then, just as he reaches the wide sliding doors that lead back inside the loft apartment, cool air hitting his face and fanning out around him like a gentle caress. “Underneath all this ink and all those scars, you are still nothing more but a pretty little boy, Jinlong.”  
Geming rarely ever uses his full name and yet it stops him in his tracks, makes a shudder run down his spine and he draws in a deep breath, grits his teeth so hard he feels them grate against each other.  
“And one day.”, Geming goes on, as if he doesn't notice how Jins fingers ball into fists by his side, idly tracing the tip of one finger against the edge of his glass, smearing the crystal with wine. “The things you will do, will come crashing down on you. Because you have no idea, how the wheels of this world turn and you will be the one at the bottom, when they come down to crush you.”  
“What a wise man you are.”, Jin grits out, shooting one last smile over his shoulder – the one he knows Geming likes, all crinkling eyes and flashing teeth. As if he is still sixteen. “How could I ever live without your smart advice?”  
“Careful, Jin.”, Geming states softly, turning his head to look at him over the edge of his glasses, eyes sparkling in the brilliant afternoon sun. “Those who play with fire, will eventually get burned. No matter if they know the dangers, or not. Be careful out there.”  
Jin wants to say he always is, wants to tell Geming to mind his own business, but he doesn't. He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and sets his jaw, stubbornly turning away once more to leave. The apartment is eerily silent around him as he strides through it, cold and unfamiliar to him, as is the man who sits on the terrace outside, sipping the rest of his wine, as if this conversation never even happened.

 

The night around him is loud with the sounds of burning stoves and sizzling oil, the heat of the sun seemingly still radiating off every surface he passes – streaming from every pot, every pan, every shop. He feels like he is burning up from the inside out, the palms of his hands still sticky with sweat and he looks down to check, if there are remainders of blood still clinging to his fingers. There is no trace on his body of what he did. No splatter of red across his black uniform, no red on the slip of his white collar. No streaks of color against his face even though he feels like he is marked by the crime he committed.  
He turns, wraps a hand around his own throat and swallows, feels like he gulping around stones.  
“Water.”, he tells the first shop vendor he stumbles across, watching the short, pudgy man wipe a greasy hand on his white shirt to get rid of the dirt before he reaches underneath his stand to retrieve the water, barely sparing him a single glance. When the man does, he notices the slight stop in his movements, the way his eyes flicker from his face, down to the collar around his neck and then up again. The words seem frozen on his tongue, his short, stubby fingers closed around a cold bottle of water that hovers between them motionlessly.  
“White child.”, he sees the mans lips shape, without sound. The words replace the price the man surely wanted to bark out, too expensive, too exclusive. Water. Clean, bottled, probably stolen from the upper rings of the city.  
“Thank you.”, he simply says and reaches out, closes his fingers around the bottle just in the moment the vendor lets go, as if he could be burned by the touch of their hands.  
It's weird, the effect he has on people here, how they either look at him like he is a ghost, or as if he is God himself, walking their dirty, grimy, trash filled streets.  
The vendor opens his mouth and closes it again, just as he unscrews the cap of the bottle and takes a swig, wiping the back of his hand carelessly across his mouth.  
“And a pack of Syntacc.”, he tags along, just for good measure, a part of him curious of what he can ask of the man, before common sense kicks back in. There is nothing special about him, nothing that makes him more important than those people here, just the white around his neck. And still...  
The vendor wordlessly reaches out again and pulls a pack of Syntacc from the shelf, the red box gleaming underneath the pink neon light that flickers above their heads, the sound of static almost as loud as the cicadas in the upper city.  
“I need a rentbot.”  
With huge, frightened eyes, the pudgy vendor swallows, points a finger down the road where the lights are brighter, more neon in the darkness of the night. The greenish light bulb above them hums in the silence.   
“Thank you.”, he smirks and cocks his head to the side, letting the dark strands of his hair fall into his eyes before he pulls up the hood of his jacket and drags it down into his face, zips the collar up a little higher to hide the white. Just down the road, he tells himself as he pivots and walks down the narrow alley that runs against the side of an abandoned highway, now functioning as nothing but a footpath to get up to the eleventh ring of the city. He's so far up in the north, it's almost as if he can already taste the Infection in the air. It's like a soft fog that settles over everything, making the air taste metallic and acid, burning when he inhales.

Most people down here wear masks to protect their faces, fit snugly over mouth and nose – and yet he knows that they are useless. They all are coughing up blood by now. If not, they will in a couple of years. There are no air filters down here, no ventilation systems to protect the people from the pollution that settles heavily over everything, a grimy coat that sticks to the skin, turns his shoes an ashen gray even though he only walked these dirty, godforsaken streets for not longer than an hour since he came down from two rings up.  
He could as well reach into the gutter and smear the dirt all over himself. It almost feels as if the dust that lingers in the air is already filling up his lungs, clings to his skin and clothes.  
It weights him down.  
With a scoff he pushes on, through the throng of people that stream out of the train station exits left and right, up the abandoned highway and out of sight, or into the forest of neon signs and shouting vendors. He imagines for a moment, that he can still feel the mans eyes on his back, still rendered silent behind his stall by the simple sight of a white collar.  
As if on reflex, his fingers come up to tug at the closure of his jacket, making sure it sits nice and snug over the slip of white silk that strangles him. The blue neon flickers when he comes closer, the letters flashing subtly and yet clearly visible in the night that settles over the lower rings, always lit by the red sky and the thousands of flashing signs – blue, green and pink against the backdrop of heavy metal and steel. Blackness around him, no matter how bright the colors are shining.  
He pushes the small door open, hidden between two stone pillars that frame the simple wooden door like guards, shrouding it from unwanted gazes.   
Inside, the air feels more gentle against his lungs, not as biting, not as acid and he takes a deep breath, slips the hood back from his hair, feeling moisture against his hand. In the upper city it's raining, he thinks while he looks at the black drops of water that roll over the unblemished skin of his knuckles, just like the blood had earlier, warm and sticky when he spilled it.  
  
“Sir.”, a silent voice rips him out of his thoughts and he looks up, meets the unnaturally blue eyes of a Bot behind the reception desk, long silver fingers drumming against a nondescript book, a long list of names. All of them are fake, he is sure. Or they are real and people are just too sure of themselves to give out an alias, too self-confident to even expect someone to look at the list more than a second. “Your thumb.”

The Bot doesn't even blink when he pulls down the zipper of his jacket to reveal the collar, only holds out a hand for him to take. He does so, tries not to hesitate before his skin comes into contact with the cold shell of silver the Bot is clad in. He tries to picture what he needs, what he wants, as soon as the Bot presses the pad of his thumb against the counter, the glass surface springing to life, numbers rattling down underneath the invisible sheet. It almost looks like his hand is floating above an abyss, lit with graphics and statistics. The Bot studies his face while he looks down into the darkness that is supposedly his mind, blue eyes unblinking in her huge, silvery face. She's pretty, he notes in the back of his head and the Bot smiles, leans her head to the side in a movement that is surely supposed to be human, but only makes her less so. Her hair is dark, twisted on top of her head into an artistic ponytail, little bells twinkling in the black strands.  
“Human.”, the Bot mutters after a few moments and takes his hand off the scanner, the corners of her silicone lips pulling up into a smile, although the bow of them remains in a tiny pout. “Your wishes were very... specific.”  
“It's a matter of science.”, he replies to her, trying to keep his voice steady, no matter how much it wants to tremble. He doesn't feel ready for this. “Compatibility.”  
“As a member of the facility, I am sure this is very important to you. Science.” Her voice is lilting, almost as if she has an accent. As if her program was written outside of the city, in a faraway land.  
He remains silent and she bows her head, brings up a hand to curl it over her mouth as if she's hiding a coy smile. His skin crawls. The thought of coupling with a Bot like most people do, makes bile rise in his throat, the touch of her hand against his, enough to make him want to pull away.  
“This way.”, she tells him, pointing over towards a narrow staircase, lit in a soft orange glow. “The room you requested is already being set for you. Follow the signs on the floor.”  
A “thank you” is already lingering on his tongue and he swallows it, doesn't even nod when he turns away and climbs the staircase, trying to walk as slow and composed as he can.  
He imagines that there is still blood under his fingernails, that there is still skin sticking to his own, in the small creases of his knuckles, in the cuffs of his tight-fitting jacket. Perhaps it's not fair.  
To think of the man he killed this morning as nothing but a test-dummy. He knows the basics of the human body, knows where fat tissue ends and muscle starts, how deep to cut through skin and flesh before he reaches the organs.   
  
In theory.   
  
This morning only proved to him, that _in theory_ things are always easier. He didn't cut deep enough at first, having to slit through the mans throat a second time to keep him from screaming. Too deep the third time when he had opened his stomach. This time needs to be perfect.  
Perfection is what he was raised for. What he _is_ trained for.  
No one will miss a black-collared whore. And no one will question a facility child, even if they are smeared in blood from head to toe. He can't get caught though. A white collar only grants him this much freedom, this much leeway, before cuffs will inevitably close around his wrists.  
Not if he proves it. Not if he is right.  
The greater cause justifies all actions.  
It was the very first lesson he ever learned in his life. That, no matter what you do, the reason behind it is what will justify it. If only the reason is big enough.  
The floor under his feet flashes with brilliant arrows with each step he takes and he follows. Up the stairs, down to the right, up another set of stairs and into the attic, the ceiling low and decorated with a myriad of fairy lights that cast soft shadows against the walls, hung with carpets and silken scarfs. There is a low bed on the far wall, the corner and ceiling of the room made of glass, letting in the colors of the night around him, sprinkled with little dark dots of water that fall down from the invisible night sky that only shines in the upper rings.  
On the bed lounges a girl, soft black hair brushed back over one shoulder, naked safe from the silken cloths wrapped around her lower body and legs, artfully draped to conceal her nudity.  
The little hills of her breasts are white, tapering into pink nubs that are soft and delicate looking, like tiny peaches that would fit perfectly into his hands. There is a triangle of moles just underneath the hollow of her throat and he smiles, eyes flickering up to her face.  
She's young. No older than seventeen maybe. But her eyes shine with something that tells him that inside her mind, she is way older, has seen more than most people ever will in their entire life.  
“Good evening.”, she greets him in a soft, breathy voice and he purses his lips, lifts his eyebrows while she slowly pushes herself into a sitting position, bare feet touching the carpeted floor. The neon signs behind the window throw colors across her white skin, paint her in a dress of light. And for a moment he thinks she looks beautiful like this, untouched by the cruel world that lies just behind the fence he can see through the gap between houses behind her. Her beauty could have made her a facility child, oh if only she was born in the right part of the city, or maybe with the right genes. If only her parents weren't already sick.  
“What's your name?”, he asks while he slowly peels himself out of his jacket, carefully folding and discarding it on one of the big armchairs that are to his right – two of them, black velvet next to a white coffee table, all set with tea and water. Her eyes flicker to the collar around his neck, but there is no movement, no flicker of emotion on her heart-shaped, tiny face.  
“RuLian.”, she says then, calmly. And he knows that this is her real name, not the alias they gave her in the rentbot house. She doesn't attach an honorific, doesn't call him _sir._  
And suddenly it dawns on him that indeed, she was a candidate for a white collar, but the black of her veins was enough to doom her to a life down here – in this house.  
“We share a part of that name.”, he tells her, conversationally, while he strides over to her slowly, watching her head tilt back to meet his eyes. There are tiny red dots painted onto her eyelids, like blood in the snow. “My names is Shanru.”  
“What do you want from me tonight, Shanru?, RuLian simply asks him, instead of acknowledging his words, her dark eyes flickering with neon pink. “A facility child doesn't seek pleasure from a rentbot. You only couple with your own kind.”  
“That isn't entirely true.”, he answers her slowly, bringing up a hand to cup her chin with three of his fingers, the tip of his thumb brushing against the lower bow of her soft, rose colored lips. “But few are brave enough to tell about a night with a facility child.”  
“You didn't answer my question.”, RuLian gives back, her voice still breathy and yet so strong, Shan almost feels guilty for what he has to do. “What do you want from me?”  
He smiles down at her then, a decision made and he shakes his head, tilts her head up further to press a delicate, gentle kiss to her lips. She responds, trained. But her hands are still in her lap, twisting the silk of her garments and he wants to smile when he notices, how scared she is.

Scared of him.

“A moment of mortality.”, he whispers against her mouth and a light of understanding flashes through her eyes, mixed with green and pink, shadows drawn over her face like streaks of pencil.  
“Alright.”, she breathes back and Shan smiles.

 

Her flesh is still warm when he slowly brings the knife down on top of her throat, one hand wrapped around her mouth, fingers almost covering her entire face. She is so tiny underneath him, her arms pinned to her sides by the blanket she lies under, held still by his knees that are pressed into the mattress on each side of her. She moves, only a little. The Bandrinium he coated his lips with took her to sleep after only a couple of minutes, their flesh still cooling and still sticky with sweat. Shan watched her for a moment, eyes scanning over her face, over the black spidery veins on her temples, on the insides of her wrists where the skin was thin.  
So young. Doomed to death already. Only a couple of years, maybe, before the infection would have claimed her, either killing her instantly, or having her banished behind the fence, to fend for herself like countless others before her.  
“So pretty.”, he hums to himself while he sets the scalpel down on the creme of her skin, painting the first streak of red against the side of her neck and over her throat.

She screams.

The sound is so sudden, so _loud_ , he flinches back. The scalpel is knocked from his hand, clatters to the floor noisily and he scrambles for it, a hand slapping into his face and spreading blood.  
RuLian is still screaming, kicking her legs out and thrashing underneath him and he curses, throws himself off of her body, hands fumbling with his clothes. The shirt slips over his skin, soaks through with the blood that is in his face and hair, on his hands. The silk of his collar turns red on one side and he whips himself around to stare at the girl on the bed, thrashing in agony and pressing both her hands to her throat, shining eyes fixed on his face in burning hatred.  
Why, they seem to ask, but there is only the scream coming from her mouth that makes his ears ring and his thoughts swim. There are noises coming from downstairs, heavy boots on the wooden staircase and he curses again, turns around himself to look for a way out of the room. There is only one door. And the tiny window above the coffee table. Facility child or not, he hears his teachers voice snarl in the back of his head, in the lower rings of the city, your flesh is worth just as much as any other humans. His heart leaps into his chest when he makes for the window above the bed, shoulder slamming against the glass before the weight of his body breaks it.  
He falls in a rain of shards, like stars around him in the brilliance of the night. With a pained noise he crashes into the flat roof underneath, hears the door in the room above him break open, an angry voice shouting out curses in a language he doesn't understand. Chancing a glance behind himself, he sees three men standing at the edge of the window, one of them peering down at him, tattooed face twisted in anger. He knows those tattoos. He knows what they mean.  
His blood runs cold in his veins and before he knows it, he gets to his feet and runs.

 

Up and over the fence. It's the only way for him to escape, knees and hands scraped bloody with rough concrete when he fell and stumbled, chased down into the narrow streets and huts of the outer Hutongs, not built of stone like the posh areas in the city center, but made of metal and wood, just good enough for those who can starve down here like rats.  
Shan slips, falls face first into the fence, his lip splitting open. He swallows the blood, breathes in deeply and jumps. His legs are burning from the chase, his muscles protesting when he pulls himself up over the fence, barbed wire biting into his arms and chest, ripping open his shirt. They won't follow him into the no-mans land.  
Not if they value their lives. And he only has to run a mile or less, before he can climb back up, maybe even cross the wasteland here to get back to the outskirts of the northern border, just where the explosion ripped enough buildings apart to destroy the entire upper area where the former Shunyi district once was. The reconstruction of the district was stopped just after Shan was born, the sites abandoned and rusty around him as he runs, boots slipping over loose gravel and dirt, making him slip and nearly fall onto his hands and knees. He scrambles for hold, pushes on and then eventually stops running, catching his breath while he turns and looks at the fence in the distance, the lights fading and grown small.  
“This should be far enough.”, he tells himself, runs a hand through his sweaty hair and grimaces when it comes away bloody and wet. “Fuck.”  
The air around him is so silent, he can hear the beating of his own heart, hammering hard against his ribs and making his chest visibly rise and fall beneath the black of his shirt, clinging to his skin with sweat.  
She shouldn't have woken up. Not with the dose of Bandrinium he gave her.  
He feels for his pocket, for the little flasks in the pouch he had hastily stuffed into the back of his pants when he left the laboratory last night. They're still there.  
Crouching, he drops it to the ground, uses the little light the city in the distance still provides him with to shift through the tiny bottles, pulling one out that still holds the clear solution. He didn't get to her heart tissue, but maybe the blood from her artery is enough... A sound to his left has him rising his head, a shiver running down his spine. Somewhere in the darkness something moves. He tenses, hands stilling while he unscrews the bottle, eyes squinting into the dark.  
A cat slithers out from between a fallen truck and the side of a half-built house, slouching away into the night while he watches. The breath he lets out is shaky.  
He runs a finger into his hairline, collect the blood that is smeared across his face and drips it into the flask, quickly screwing it shut again to give it a shake, sitting back onto his heels, upper arms balanced on his knees. The solution is still clear when he rests the bottle against his palm and for a moment his heart leaps in his chest, misses a beat. It turns bloody right after. Just his sweat, dirtying the sample. All this... for nothing. With an angry hiss, Shan throws the flask back down into the pouch, zips it shut with angry, cut-off movements. He closes his eyes for a moment, allows the despair to claim him, tears burning behind his eyelids and he sighs, rubs both his hands down over his face before he gets up from the ground and pushes the pouch back in his pocket.  
He could go back to the fence, he contemplates while his eyes scan the area, eyebrows drawn together into an angry line. He could. And risk to get caught by the men who were chasing after him. He would rather face the terrors of a lonely walk in the night, than face them. He just has to make it to Sunhe station, onto the train tracks. From there it's hardly a twenty minute walk into the tunnels and to the next security checkpoint. He can do this.  
His shoes make a horrible grating sound on the concrete as he turns and walks away from the fence, into the direction of the darkest point, no light visible in front of him.  
It's like he truly crossed the border this time. Not just a forgotten tree and a bench at dawn, but the deepest chasm a person can reach, no sound but his own breathing, no light but the orange and red glow of the city that spans the horizon in his back and to his right.  
The bomb crater ripped away a part of the city in the north all those years ago, like a person would take a bite out of an apple, shaping a wide U into the silhouette of a city that was once center and dream of an entire nation. Now it's nothing more than a shelter. No brightly glittering star anymore, just an asylum for all those, who had nowhere else to go. Trapped.  
They all were trapped behind this fence. Behind the smog.  
Endless minutes stretch under his feet as he walks, past empty shells of houses that are half in ruins, half more-story buildings that reach into the sky. How many lives were lost that day, his teacher once asked them, having them do the math on pristine sheets of paper, as white as their collars and the walls surrounding them.  
How many people had to die just because of one simple, banal mistake?  
Just because they were living close to the airport back then? Shan has already forgotten the answer and if he is being honest, he doesn't even care anymore. What is a human life to him? Nothing but the blink of an eye. A breath, a heartbeat. Muscles and bones, blood and organs.

A shell.

No soul in there.

By the time his shoes make contact with the remainders of the TianBei Highway, he is drenched in sweat. The night is humid, there are cicadas fizzling, he can hear the ever buzzing noises of mosquitoes in his ears, already feels them biting into his skin painfully, like someone is pressing the glowing end of a Syntacc stick to his skin. He swats a hand at the cumbersome flies and keeps walking, boots crushing bits of grass that stick out from the broken concrete of the highway. It's a straight streets, leading into the city. He knows this area from studying maps of the old city, of the new city too. There should be a cross section, just a couple of miles ahead of him. Maybe two.  
“If you're lost, look for something familiar.”  
The thought makes him smile bitterly to himself. There is nothing familiar out here. No light to guide him, just enough for him not to stumble into old cars or trip over bits of bricks and broken bicycles. In the distance, he can already see the bridge, surely the one where the train tracks run upon, a black shadow against the orange of the clouds. Just a couple more miles.  
It's not half bad out here, he tells himself while he passes a giant stone, faded golden letters glimmering just enough for him to make out the giant characters and English words written underneath. The houses behind the stone and broken wall are huge, looming as nothing more than contours next to him. One after the other emerges, row after row of houses so big, Shan is sure they must have cost a fortune back then. They are breathtaking even in ruins. High roofs, pillars, bricks. He is so transfixed by the thought of a civilization long gone, he misses the movement to his left. Something clatters on the concrete, the branches of a wild growing hedge rustle and break and before he can throw himself to the side, something barrels into his left and rips him from his feet. Hot air meets his face the moment his shoulder crashes against the ground, gravel ripping into his skin and shirt, tearing the black fabric apart. He shouts in shock, presses his eyes shut as if it can protect him from the stinking breath that fans across his face, as if it could block the hands that are closing around his throat and squeeze, pull him up from the ground and crash him back down again, the back of his head hitting the pavement with a sickening scrunch.  
Kicking, he swings his body around, pushes both his hands against a chest that is rapidly rising and falling above him and he rolls, gets to his feet faster than he thought he ever could and – runs.  
He sprints as fast as he can, not looking back. If there is one thing he remembers from school it's this. They will follow you, no matter how badly you injure them, no matter how fast you run. The only way to survive, is kill them or be faster.  
Shan isn't sure he is able to do either.  
His shoulder aches, his thighs are burning and he feels like he is about to throw up. There is a dull pain throbbing behind his eyes, blurring his vision as he sprints past an abandoned mall, windows broken and only the flicker of green exit signs inside telling him what it once was. A town for ghosts. The creature behind him screeches, the sound thrown back at them from the high buildings to Shans right, a small cross section whizzing past him as he sprints for his life. This time for real. These things don't care about freaking collars. They only care for blood.  
He collides with a fallen chain-link fence, slits his forearms open on the rusty metal as he tries to brace himself against the impact. The creature is on him in a heartbeat. Taloned fingers curl into his hair, yank his head back and teeth sink into the side of his neck, just where the junction of his shoulder and nape is, ripping a tormented scream from him. His blood is hot where it flows down his back, washes away the cold sweat of panic that makes his skin slippery.  
With a grunt Shan pushes against the fence, throws his entire weight backwards and listens with satisfaction as the collision against the ground breaks some of the things ribs as he lands on top of it, ripping a strangled whimper of pain from its throat. More voices echo the sound, as if they have a collective mind. Ice cold dread flows through his body then as he sways upright again, one hand pressed against the side of his neck, trying to stop the blood flow. It gushes from between his fingers, even more than RuLians blood had done when he had cut open the side of her neck with the scalpel. There are bits of his flesh missing under his palm, clumps of it ripped out when he had thrown himself back against the creature. He stumbles forward, away from the thrashing thing on the ground, away from the voices.  
It's not far, his mind screams at him. It's not far!  
If only he can make it to the nearest subway station, if only he can lock the trellis gates behind him, walk on the tracks for as long as he can before they find him. Somebody ought to find him out here, right? The men surely told the TeQin where he went... someones going to come for him.  
The map in his head seems to glow to life, tiny dots connecting roads and old subway maps from decades ago, colorful and useless. Until now.  
Left, the voice in his head tells him and he follows, swings himself to the side with a pained noise. His vision is blurry when he makes it to the other side of the road without anything jumping him again, the screeching behind him suddenly falling silent. When he turns his head, hand braced against the side of a tree, he sees it.  
Hundreds of glowing eyes in the darkness behind him, watching him. Green like the eyes of a cat in the passing lights of a car. He takes a step forward, the eyes follow the movement, but there is still no sound. No movement. The first pair of eyes finally advances and if its a chain of events, a domino effect, Shan propels himself into action again. The blood pulses harder out of his neck when he runs, but there is no other way to survive. He can't die like this out here. Ripped apart by those things that aren't even human anymore. In the light of day, in the sterile light of the laboratory they hadn't appeared this threatening. Human, just a little different. Longer teeth, longer fingernails, black veins where a humans shouldn't be visible, or blue.  
A stone wall flies past him in the twilight, another long, broken road ahead of him. The subway station is a big building just ahead of him, slightly to the right. It comes into sigh behind a billboard that blocks the view, a wide yard behind it. No obstacles in his way.

With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Shan pushes himself to run even faster. They aren't faster than a human. They're just human themselves. And he was trained for this. To be fast, strong, more than an ordinary person. He was always the fastest out of his class. He can outrun them long enough to reach the station and let down the trellis gates.  
When he comes closer, he nearly cries out in frustration. This side of the building is broken in, the only door that is still accessible already blocked by the grid, barricaded with wood and old vending machines.  
Trying to get inside would be a waste of time – and time is the one thing Shan doesn't have right now. Cursing loudly, he whirls around and makes for the other entrance the station is bound to have. As he passes underneath the track bridge, he hears them again. Hundreds of feet against the concrete behind him. He won't make it. Not like this – with a limp, a bleeding neck, his head swimming with pain, white lights exploding behind his eyelids.  
His feet slow, a broken sound slips from his throat and his hands fall to his sides, bloody and sweaty and limp. He won't make it. Even if he makes into the subway station, he won't be fast enough to outrun them so he can let down the gate. One or two are bound to get inside and then... he won't be strong enough to defend himself anymore. Against a single person, maybe... but without a weapon and injured like this...? He's exhausted. He doesn't want to run anymore. He can't anymore.  
A pair of hands shoots out of the darkness to his left, one closing around his mouth, the other around his upper arm. The sound of surprise he wants to make is pressed out of him as the hands yank on his body, throwing him straight into the deep shadows underneath the bridge.  
He's thrown against the wall, the air rushing from his lungs and then there is the hand again, callused and big, long fingers spanning over his face like a mask, keeping him silent and still.

He freezes, eyes growing wide. Against the orange clouds, he can see the shape of another man standing in front of him, their bodies pressed together in the slight gap between a bridge pier and the subway station, the shadows there so deep, they are completely invisible to the outside world. Time seems to slow around him while he stares, still limp in the other mans hold.  
One of them rushes by, snarling and screeching. Shans heart hammers so loudly in his chest, he thinks they are bound to hear. But they just pass. One after the other, running past them where they are hidden in the darkness. Endless minutes trickle by, just like the blood trickles down Shans side and back, wetting his skin and clothes. He's breathing hard by now, the pressure of the hand on his mouth almost painful. Then it's gone, the man taking a step back to peer out of their hiding spot.

“I got him.”, he says, voice low and gravelly, shooting down Shans spine like a lightning.  
“What?”, he breathes out and the man shoots him a glance – or at least that is what Shan assumes he does, because he can't see a single thing in these shadows.  
“Come on.”, the man suddenly addresses him and a strong hand curls around his wrist, tugging him forward and towards the station building. The mans other hand comes up to his throat, where Shan can now see a choker wrapped around his neck, a red little button blinking behind the collar of a uniform.  
Uniform.  
The word makes his brain short-circuit, screech to a hold.  
“You-”, he begins, but the man shushes him angrily.  
“Let it down.”, he commands to seemingly no one, but Shan realizes that the choker around his neck is a radio. Of course the soldier didn't come alone. That would be suicide.  
The trellis gate rattles to life above them as soon as they cross the threshold of the subway station, the orange glow illuminating an abandoned entrance hall, the machines ripped out of their sockets and thrown across the room to keep the barricades in place that block the other doors.  
Shan wordlessly follows his nameless savior towards the escalators, climbing them slowly while the man tugs his wrist impatiently, making an angry sound in the back of his throat that almost sounds like a growling dog.   
“Got him?”, a voice from above asks and the man in front of Shan repeats the angry noise.   
“Turn your fucking headset on, you idiot.”, he snarls and a head appears out of the darkness above, teeth flashing in a grin that splits a boyish face. “Yes sir.”  
“Would I come back here, if I didn't have him?”  
“Dead or alive.”, a female voice comments behind them as soon as they make it up the escalator and into the platform area. The light is brighter up here, not shrouded by trees or buildings, falling through the glass sliding doors that used to open when a train entered the station. Now they are all open permanently, letting in the cool night air, a soft breeze that feels like a caress against Shans hot skin. He sways, moans in pain and almost falls against the man who is still holding his wrist.  
The other lets go of him then, gives his shoulder an angry push that has him stumbling and falling onto his ass, his mouth already opening in fury. But then his eyes land on the mans face for the first time since they left the hiding spot he had been yanked into. A shadowy streak falls across the soldiers features, for a moment blocking Shans gaze from the lower half of his face, but its the others eyes that make him fall silent.   
“He's injured.”, the solider states, as a matter of fact and Shan notes someone springing into action next to him. It's a woman, he thinks to himself even while he still stares up at the man who saved him just minutes ago from an inevitable, probably horrible death.  
“I'll take care of that, boss.”, the same female voice from earlier says and the soldier above Shan nods once, crosses his arms over his chest. They are lined with black ink and scars, sinewy with muscle, his fingers long and almost elegant. Not like the fingers of a soldier. Those are the fingers of a scholar. Of a facility child.  
“Tangjia didn't make it.”, a second man to the soldiers right says, holding out a dog tag and a knife. “They got her at Sunhe just after we split up.”  
The solider remains silent and motionless for a few heartbeats, staring Shan down where he sits on the ground, lax under the womans hands even while she starts cutting his collar open to get a better look at the wound on his neck.  
“Jin.”, the other soldier urges silently and then finally, movement. The man reaches out and takes both the dog tag and the knife from the other, dropping down into a crouch.

“Was it worth it?”, he asks slowly, his voice cutting into Shans mind like a knife into flesh. “The death of my comrade, just so you could have a little bit of fun, white child?”  
“Excuse me?”, Shan gets out, mouth opening and closing helplessly. “I didn't-”  
“Go and bring him back.”, the man called Jin mocks a high pitched voice that can be no one else but Doctor Xishin. He flinches. “He doesn't know how to survive out there. Pah.” The dog tag is suddenly thrown into his face, the woman next to Shan making an angry noise when he flinches, fingers digging into the wound on his neck. He groans.  
“Her name was Yuan Tangjia. An excellent paramedic. Our only paramedic. You should better remember her name.”, Jin tells him, voice silent and gruff in the platform area. “She died, just because another one of you privileged fuckers decided you were bored. Let's go and wander behind the fence! Fun!”  
“Jin!”, the woman warns him sternly and Jin scoffs, turns his head away as his fingers play with the edge of the blade. Then he brings it up and sets it to his forearm, cutting a short straight line over the side of it, next to a couple of other scars that are already fading into silvery lines.  
“I didn't come out here because I was bored.”, Shan finally says, voice stronger than he would have expected. “Do you think I'm an idiot?”  
“Oh look, he talks.”, the third soldier in the hall says and starts strolling away, whistling under his breath as if he is taking a walk in the sunshine and not in the center of apocalypse.  
“Kiddo, shut up.”, the woman sitting next to him suggest softly while she starts stitching him up with careful hands, her fingertips soft against his skin.  
Jin looks up from his arm, their eyes meet. There is silence for a long moment, then a bitter laugh.  
“And then why exactly did you come here?”, he asks and Shan swallows around the truth.  
“Some thugs were after me.”, he starts and Jin laughs louder, the sound without any joy.  
“You're either really stupid, or suicidal.”  
“I'd go for suicidal.”, says the third solider from the left and Jin hisses at him, almost like a cat.  
“Shut up, Hanying.”  
The other lifts both his arms in a sign of surrender.  
“It's your job to come looking for me.”, Shan stresses and brushes the womans hands away, who only sighs and gets up, muttering something under her breath Shan can't make out. “You TeQin are--”  
“TeQin?”, Jin snaps and gives his shoulder a push when he tries to stand, effectively making him fall onto his behind again. They glower at each other for a long moment, brown eyes meeting brown eyes. “We are not TeQin. No TeQin would ever come out this far, not even for a white child.”  
“Then what-”  
The other man moves forward then, bringing them so much closer and while Shan had been fixed on the others eyes for endless minutes, it's his face that truly renders him speechless now. Slender, nearly too fine to be a solider who curses like a sailor, lips so gently bowed they can be described as nothing but beautiful. A straight nose, slim and sophisticated underneath angry eyebrows. Black hair falls into his forehead, the sides cut short, the tips of his parted fringe just reaching beneath his eyebrows. He's breathtaking. Not even the scar on his right cheek can change that, no matter how red the wound is against his white skin.  
“We were sent after you for only one reason, idiot. You are important enough to matter to Doctor Xishin and we are good enough to not die like flies out here. But we are not TeQin. Fuck their lazy asses.”  
“What Jin is trying to say”, Hanying provides with a smile that is nearly gentle, despite the fact that he is holding a loaded rifle to his chest, finger on the trigger. “Is that you got yourself the honor to have the Skeleton Angels sent after your skinny ass.”

 

It's silent while they walk down the train tracks, the night around them almost peaceful where just half an hour ago it was hell on earth for Shan. The moon above their heads casts a gentle, silver light down upon them, painting the trees surrounding them gray and steel-blue, black against a red sky. Shan walks between Jin and Ziyie – the woman who tried to stitch him back together, despite the fact that she wasn't the paramedic of the little assembly that was sent out to rescue him – Hanying having the back of their tiny procession, rifle still pressed against his chest, as if they could be jumped any second. Up here on the tracks they should be safe, the taller man told Shan just as they were climbing out of the sliding doors, boots sliding over the metal tracks and slipping onto dusty concrete. As long as the door stays blocked, nothing will come after them.  
It's weird to him, that the facility deemed four people enough to walk out into the night to rescue him – _him,_ one of the most important researchers Doctor Xishin ever had.  
Four, he stresses silently to himself while he fixes his gaze onto Jins broad shoulders, the soft taper of his back where it slims into his waist and narrow hips. Underneath his gear, he can make out strings of muscles that move with every step the other man takes, his shirt straining against the bulge of his triceps when he adjusts the assault rifle he picked back up as soon as he was done verbally punching Shan into the ground earlier. A strange kind of fascination blooms in his mind, a twisted attraction even. Like someone falling for their teacher. Or their kidnapper.  
Shan scoffs, rips his eyes away and fixes them on the tips of his shoes again, onto the way they step perfectly into the tracks Jins own combat boots leave in the dust and sand on the train bridge.  
They passed the river almost ten minutes ago and yet there is no sign of Sunhe station, although it should come into view any time now. Just around the turn, Ziyie repeated several times when Shan had asked her, impatiently prodding him into the back to get him going.  
His scraped knees make every step he takes pure agony though, having him slowing down more often than not, fingers touching the bandage fixed over the bite wound on the side of his neck.  
“Would you shoot me?”, he suddenly asks and neither Ziyie nor Hanying answer him. It's a question directed clearly at Jin, his voice carrying out over the train tracks to where their self proclaimed leader strides ahead, steps brisk. “Even if I'm a white child?”  
“Shoot you?”, Jin repeats and shoots him a glance over his shoulder, his handsome face twisted into a confused grimace, before it smooths out into nothing and then – a smirk. “You mean because you were bitten? Sweet peach, darling. I would shoot you, white child or not, if only I could.”  
The answer spikes fire down his spine – for several reasons.  
It's clear to him that Jin would probably really shoot him, just because he's an asshole and it's clear from the way he looks at Shan, all dark eyes and angrily twisted mouth, that he would probably rather walk this entire way on his own than drag the facility child with him. He had always been great at making friends.  
“You really left a dent in his ego when you called him a TeQin.”, Hanying explains from the back when all Shan does is stare at Jin in stunned silence, mouth slightly open. He sounds amused – and Shan is starting to suspect that it's just a permanent state for him. Amusement, where the world is cruel.  
“I'm sorry about your friend.”, he distracts himself from his highly confusing thoughts, turning his head slightly to look at Ziyie, who walks just behind him, slightly to the right.  
Their eyes meet and she blinks, cocks her head a little to the side while she contemplates his words. She's pretty, gracefully built underneath her thick gear. The rifle in her hands seems to big for her, the handle just underneath her chin. She's almost as tall as Shan, long black hair tied into a high ponytail that swings with each of her steps, a pendulum that never stops, like the stomping of their boots against the bridge.

“Friend.”, she says then, slowly, and Shan almost expects her to launch into a speech about how the Skeleton Angels are family, how they are so much more than simple comrades, brothers in arms. How they share the same blood, fire and spirit. But she just shrugs, brushes his words aside with a wave of her hand before she twirls the end of her ponytail around her fingers, black fingernails vanishing in the silken strands. “We weren't friends. Coming out here is a job, kiddo. We don't need to know each others birthdays, to work together.”  
“But he-”  
“ _Jin_ is our leader.”, Ziyie cuts him off immediately, as if she was already suspecting him to speak. “A leader is responsible for those who follow him. He is in charge of us, is the one who gives us the orders that will inevitably kill us.”  
“What a rosy outlook on life.”, Shan hears himself say and Hanying chuckles lowly, shaking his head at him. Ziyie stares at him for a moment with confused eyes, before she shrugs.  
“It's true, isn't it? We are qualified to be honored and respected, but we are also qualified to die and be forgotten. Face it, kiddo. While you facility children sit on your asses in the laboratory, we are out here. Who, do you think, gets you all those samples, hm?”  
“What do you do there anyways?”, Hanying asks from the back and Shan nearly stumbles over his own feet when he tries to look at the tall man behind him. “Searching for a cure?”  
“There is no cure.”, Shan shakes his head grimly, almost incredulously. As if the question alone is an offense. And maybe it is. He doesn't know and he doesn't care.  
“I can't tell you.”  
“Of course you can't.”, Hanying smirks and Shan feels himself flush. “You white collars love your top secrets and confidential shit.”  
“It's not like that.”, Shan tries to explain, maybe defend himself, but Hanying lifts a hand and waves him off, just like Ziyie had done earlier. “It's fine. I was joking.”  
He wasn't. Shan knows the human mind good enough to know that Hanying was all, but joking.  
“Your pointless conversations make the air thin.”, Jin snarls in front of Shan, not even sparing them a glance. “What's the point in asking a facility child anything? They won't answer you like a normal human being. Their heads are always just filled with riddles.”  
A normal human being, Shan repeats silently, his gaze suddenly dropping and his steps slowing. Maybe that's the point... of all this. No facility child could ever be considered a normal human being, what with them being immune to infection, immune to disease.  
“He is actually a really nice guy.”, Ziyie chuckles next to him and Shan looks at her with furrowed eyebrows, disbelief written all over his face. She laughs, pats him on the shoulder and prods him in the back again to get him going, the cone of light from Jins torch already a couple feet ahead.  
Shan really begs to differ.

 

The night starts to brighten when they finally reach Sunhe station, just another twenty minutes behind the former Tianbei Highway, the tracks so high up the ground, the soldiers are slowly relaxing. Hanyings rifle makes a soft clinking sound with each step he takes, swinging back against his belt where it hangs loosely on his shoulder, hands in the pockets of his wide black pants.  
Ziyie is quiet next to Jin, a steady presence in his back that strangely reassures him, a second pair of eyes he can't spare to watch over the white child that walks with them, silent and gloomy.  
The young man fell silent soon after they reached Sunhe station, the building dreary enough to kill even the last bit of fight that was burning in the others eyes.  
Down on the ground, just around the bridge that looms above the vast forest that now surrounds the train tracks, they can see shadows on the ground. Long forgotten, nothing but bones and clothes left of  
those, who tried to get out of Shunyi just before it all started, the military keeping them away from the station by force. How many threw themselves to their deaths from these very tracks, Hanying once mused loudly when they were walking the same path and that night seems so far away to Jin now, he can't even remember why they came out here back then.  
On that night, they both got their very own set of first scars, soon after that their first inking, signs that they survived _out there._ To some people, those black markings on their arms, their backs and chests, mean power. To him, it is a constant reminder of how he dances on the edge.  
The edge of a blade, slowly but surely cutting him wide open.  
Sunhe station is as quiet as the night, dust glittering in the moonlight that falls through the high sliding doors, settling back on the ground where their feet whirled it up just a couple of hours ago.  
Four sets of boots, now again.  
He grits his teeth and keeps walking, leading them towards the single train wagon that waits for them, dark and quiet just at the end of the platform. Ziyie passes him then, clapping him on the shoulder and Hanying follows her when she climbs into the wagon first, already starting the engine while Hanying starts punching numbers into the control panel that will allow them to pass the Maquanying barricade.  
He makes to follow them, when he notices the absence of steps that follow _him_.  
A couple of feet away, Shan stands, eyes trained on the glass wall that shows them the distant view of the city – a monster that reaches high into the sky, level after level of lights and streets and buildings. From here, they can only see the higher rings, the expressways leading down into the lower parts, illuminated by orange streetlamps. He looks forlorn, a little.  
The white childs eyes are cast in shadows, as if he is pulling a mask over his face, shielding his emotions. But there, in the line of his mouth that is slightly down turned, it's all too evident. An aching sadness that seems to echo through his entire presence, the way his shoulders sag and his hands are limp by his sides. For a moment it seems like he isn't breathing, not even blinking while Jin stares at him.  
“What?”, Jin asks silently, his voice so quiet it could be mistaken for gentle. “Are you not happy to get back to your beloved laboratory?”  
Shan scoffs at his words and finally turns his head to face Jin, bright brown eyes wide in his white face, the gentle lines of his eyebrows drawn upwards ever so slightly. “No.”  
The answer is simple and not what Jin expected and maybe it's clear on his own face, the way his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth twitches. Because Shan takes a small step closer, their eyes never leaving each other even when the white child speaks, the words voiced almost as if they are meant for nobody but Jin.  
“There is nothing to be happy about.”, Shan tells him slowly, still coming towards him and Jin catches himself holding his breath, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip to wet it. “It's like coming home to overbearing parents. You wouldn't understand that, would you?”  
“I do.”, Jin corrects him silently and Shans eyes flicker for a moment, an expression of curiosity passing over his face so quickly, Jin isn't sure it was really there.   
“So why would I be happy?”  
“Did you try to die out there?”, he asks, instead of answering and Shan looks at him for a moment in utter confusion, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows and his mouth opening and closing again without a sound coming out.   
“I'm not sure.”, is what Jin reads on his features, but what Shan says is different.   
“Survival is a human instinct...”, he starts, but then it seems like his mind is battling with his tongue and he makes a strange sound, as if he is choking on the words. “If I had, I wouldn't have run, right?”  
“You would have.”, is Jins answer before Shan finally – finally – passes him. The moment is broken, he breathes in. The scent that hits his nose is repulsing and alluring at the same time.  
Blood, a hint of sweat and burning wood, antiseptic and chocolate. Like a birthday at a hospital.  
Wrong, but still so sweet.  
He shakes his head then, pivots on his heel and follows the facility child into the wagon that is already buzzing to life under Ziyies well trained fingers.

The doors slide shut with a hiss and Jin leans back against the wall, his head thumping into his neck while he lets go of his rifle, letting it thunk against his stomach where it rests heavily like a weight pulling him down. Hanying is already lounging on the bench, arms behind his head and eyes closed, the tip of his foot bobbing to a song in his own head.  
On the other side of the wagon Shan stands by the window, watching the little bit of world they can see before the train dives into the ground, bathing them in darkness and blue lights.  
“Survival is a human instinct.”, Jin hears him whisper and for a moment he wishes he hadn't.

 


End file.
